


Alibi

by JennaGill



Category: Her Alibi, Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: 80s!Everlark, Celebrity!Peeta, Comedy, Crime, Criminal!Katniss, Crossover, F/M, MS2SL, Suspense, Thriller, Writer!Peeta, age gap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 23:28:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9146722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaGill/pseuds/JennaGill
Summary: He's charming, nervous, and completely captivated. She's alluring, mysterious, and handy with weapons. Successful novelist Peeta Mellark provides an alibi for a beautiful stranger, rescuing him out of a writing slump—but he soon finds out that he may need rescuing from her! Modernish Everlark AU. Trigger Warning: very minor pet character death. Crossover fic with the movie Her Alibi.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This crossover fanfic is a blend of the movie Her Alibi (screenplay by Charlie Peters) and the beautiful world of THG that Suzanne Collins created. I own neither of these though lines from both appear in this fic. Major shout outs and utmost appreciation go to Caryn for doing the hardest job in the world—editing on a deadline and working through the tough parts with me, Tracy for agreeing to see how this fic stacks up against a beloved film with several fantastic suggestions along the way, and the magicians behind the MoreS2SL curtain for raising funds for DIPG. Honorable mention to The Hunger Games Wikia for posting Panemanian population fun facts.

“Get her number,” the older man mutters over his second cup of coffee that is no doubt diluted with the contents of his breast pocket flask.

 

“I'm not gonna get her number,” I balk.

 

“She's hot for you,” he says.

 

“She's not hot for me, Haymitch. I'm sick of you married guys living your fantasies through us single men. You want every woman to lust for us because you want them to lust for you.”

 

“C’mon. Bed her and take notes. Call it research,” he says.

 

“Grow up,” I return.

 

“Okay fine, she's not hot for you,” he relents and takes out some printed pages, laying them on the café table. “Let's talk about these instead.”

 

“Why do you think she's not hot for me?”

 

“Call it intuition.”

 

“Nah.”

 

“We've got a problem with these, Peeta.”

 

“What?”

 

“I'm not gonna sugarcoat it. You wrote three best-selling mysteries in a row. In a row, Peeta. That's hard to match. We had astounding royalties and movie deals. You're the biggest thing since Sidney Sheldon.

 

I sigh, having expected this speech when I agreed to meet him to discuss my latest chapters.

 

“Now the last few years, nothing but travel stories, mediocre stuff. I've been patient, Peeta. The public has a quick memory though. Very fickle. You need a hot book, and you need it now,” he says.

 

“So you didn't like the new chapters?”

 

“They're okay. But they're nothing special. Not like your old stuff.”

 

“You think I don't know that? It's not flowing. Maybe my well has run dry.”

 

“You're not done. You’re just now 40. You have plenty of time. You just need a change. That's all. Go back to court. Watch a trial. Travel. Fall in love. Something.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, shaking my head. If only it were that easy.

 

“Buy a car,” he suggests.

 

“I have a car,” I remind him.

 

“That thing? Buy yourself a sports car, a foreign one. A Porsche or a Ferrari.”

 

“Buy yourself a Ferrari, I told you—I'm not living your fantasies,” I shrug.

 

“Then live your own,” he says.

 

“I need inspiration,” I grouse.

 

“Look at your tax return from last year.”

 

“I can't come up with anything original. My characters, my plots are old, tired. I'm burnt.”

 

“Get married. You'll dream of crimes you never thought existed,” he says, distracted by the waitress bending over to dole out plates on another table in the café.

 

“That's what you need to get you back on track,” he says, motioning to the waitress.

 

“I need a new story.”

 

“You're still not over Madge, aren't you?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Don't play coy with me. I'm your mentor, remember? I've known you for twelve years. I see it. Every time you go on a date, you get to know them and let them get to know you, then Madge’s ghost rises up and pushes you back into your lonely cave. You even grew a beard. She was a wonderful woman. You loved her, she loved you, she died. You're still alive.”

 

I consider this while scratching at the scruff on my cheek. Haymitch is right. I wait for the waitress to approach our table. I should try to flirt with her. I pick up my book, with my photo on the back cover.

 

“Hi. My name’s Peeta. I wrote this,” I say, holding up the book and offering my best smile.

 

“My name’s Karla. I wrote this,” she smirks, slapping the check down onto the table and walking away. Haymitch shakes his head, snickering.

 

*****

One of Haymitch’s ideas takes root in my head. I should get back in court. Maybe inspiration will strike. I make the trek into the city next day. I enter the rear of the courtroom and spot all the familiar faces of the District Dozen. I used to come here all of the time when I first started getting ideas for my Detective Finnick Odair series, the District Dozen helping me along the way. They are retirees that study the cases coming through the courts. Their knowledge of the law is vast, but they also offer a human perspective.

 

“Johanna, Thresh, Beetee, Wiress, Chaff, Cecelia, Woof, Dalton, Mitchell, Leeg, York, and Homes, how are you all doing today?” I greet them.

 

They return the sentiment, each in their own way. They're an odd bunch, but I owe them for the support and insight they've given me over the years. They can call the plea, bail amount, and the judge’s sentence all before it's announced. I’ve known Johanna and Thresh the longest out of the group.

 

“You look like crap, Peeta. You should shave that beard. Get a haircut,” Johanna cracks.

 

“I think it suits his current state of emotions, rugged and reclusive,” notes Beetee.

 

“Thanks, Beetee—I think,” I say and cock an eyebrow at Johanna, who rolls her eyes as a reply.

 

We watch case after case throughout the day. Grand theft auto, entrapment, and manslaughter...they just aren’t striking me.

 

I stay there all day, getting more bored and distracted as the hours tick by. I close up my notebook, nothing but doodles on the pages from today anyway. Eventually, I get up to leave.

 

“I'm not getting any inspiration. I'm going home.”

 

“I’ll call you if anything interesting pops up, Peeta,” Thresh promises.

 

I turn to walk out of the court when an officer leads in a woman past me. She bumps into me, knocking my notebook out of my hand. The dark curtain of her hair parts and falls away from her face. Her quicksilver eyes flit to mine.

 

“I'm sorry,” she rushes out.

 

I'm frozen. She's gorgeous. I can't answer her, only stare as she is led toward the judge. I return to the Dozen.

 

“Who is that?” I manage.

 

“The foreign girl the D.A. told us about,” says Thresh.

 

“Wasn't it Katniss Everdeen? What'd he say about her?” I ask, suddenly very interested.

 

“They don't know. She wouldn't talk to them— she doesn't speak English,” shrugs Johanna.

 

“She spoke English to me,” I ponder, lost in her eyes.

 

“She killed a politician,” Thresh reminds me.

 

“She shot a diplomat,” Johanna adds.

 

“Her?” I balk.

 

“The Panemanian Embassy won't have anything to do with her. The D.A. wants to prosecute,” Thresh says.

 

“How could she kill anyone?” I ask under my breath.

 

“Stabbing. Twelve inch blade. Twelve wounds,” Johanna states.

 

I observe Katniss. Her face is radiant. She looks angelic, exquisite, and scared. I bet a lot of guys like her. She's the kind of woman that melts men’s hearts in a moment.

 

“Did she confess?” I press and continue staring, growing more interested by the minute.

 

“No, but they figure they have her for Murder in the third, at least,” Johanna says.

 

“That will send her to prison,” I venture and sit back down with the Dozen.

 

“One of the side effects of murder,” Thresh says and casts another sideways glance at Katniss.

 

“She's innocent,” I claim, resting my hands on the seats in front of me.

 

“How do you know?” Johanna squawks and turns around to face me.

 

“Just look at her. She's so….pure,” I indicate with my hand.

 

“Good enough looking girl, I suppose,” Woof offers to my side.

 

“It's not just that….It’s just...I can tell. She's innocent,” I repeat and watch her being led away. Where are they taking her? I jump up and try to follow through the same door an officer took her through, only to be stopped by another guard.

 

“Where do you think you're going?” the guard says.

 

A guard I recognize comes closer to see what the commotion is. “Castor, hey do you mind letting me through—I need to talk to Gloss,” I say.

 

“It's okay, Marvel,” Castor says, allowing me to pass by both of them. “Sorry Peeta, he’s new here.”

 

I smile and thank him before slipping through the door. There's a flurry of activity between lawyers, prosecutors, guards, and suspects. I spot Assistant D.A. Gloss through the crowd and claw my way to him.

 

“Peeta, hey. Hell of a day. You wouldn't believe it,”

 

“I bet. About that girl…”

 

“What girl?”

 

“The foreign girl,” I clarify.

 

“Pain in the ass. The D.A. doesn't know what to do with her. She kills a U.N. employee of a foreign country here on U.S. soil, New York soil of course, and her embassy doesn't know what to do with her. Last thing we need with the caseload we already have,” he explains.

 

“Did she do it?”

 

“I think so, but what the fuck do I know?” Gloss says and excuses himself for court.

 

I can see Katniss at a the end of the hall, talking to a priest. I slip closer, listening as the priest turns to speak to A.D.A. Gloss.

 

“That girl,” the priest says, motioning to Katniss, “wants me to hear her confession tomorrow. Who should I clear that with?”

 

“Seneca Crane. He's over Detention,” the A.D.A. replies.

 

I absorb this news. Is she guilty? Otherwise, what would she have to confess? I lift my head to watch her disappear through another door where I cannot follow, at least not today.

 

_Chapter 1. The tough heart of Detective Finnick Odair turned to molten lava when he saw her in that courtroom. Radiant. Ethereal. Fragile._

 

*****

There's too many people here, more than there was for my last publishing party. It's a chic, slick ambience, but I'd rather be anywhere else.

 

“You see, you see how everyone came out for Cato’s new book?” Haymitch taunts. “This could be you. Write another best seller, and your party will be bigger than this.”

 

“Did you drag me out to Manhattan just to make me feel bad?”

 

“No, I brought you out to expose you to more people…and more story ideas,” Haymitch mumbles.

 

“Cato is a hack. He plagiarizes everything, and his stuff is so...predictable. I could write him off the page with my eyes closed,” I say.

 

“Well, why don't you?” Haymitch pushes.

 

“I think I found a story. I saw this girl, this woman today. She stunned me like nothing else,” I admit.

 

“Well, what's the problem?” Haymitch asks.

 

“It's my inspiration. It's...locked up,” I reply.

 

A woman I vaguely recognize approaches me and offers a polite kiss on the cheek.

 

“The most eligible bachelor of 1983! And so thin? Isn't he thin?” she asks Haymitch. She turns to me, “How do you do it?”

 

“I have a terminal blood disease,” I say. It's too loud, and she's not listening anyway.

 

“You're so lucky!” she exclaims.

 

“Excuse me. I need to get back to my writing,” I say, sliding away from her.

 

“Yeah, you do that boy!” Haymitch yells at me while I make a hasty exit from the release party.

 

*****

I sit down at the desk in my study, in front of my trusty typewriter. A thick layer of dust escapes the typewriter cover as I remove it. I place a crisp sheet of paper on the roller and start to type with vigor.

 

_He first saw her amidst the rabble of the courtroom. She had the face of an angel, like the Girl with a Pearl Earring. She was Joan of Arc before the stake. One look at her and he knew in his heart, she was innocent._

 

I pause, staring at the page.

 

_He wondered what her breasts looked like._

 

_*****_

 

“Are you ready? I wasn't so sure when you said you'd spend some time here with me, to get some grit into your stories,” Lieutenant Hawthorne says.

 

“Well...Lieutenant Hawthorne, you haven't steered me wrong yet over the last ten years. You've always been a reliable source for police insight,” I say. “I figured it was time to go behind the gates.” I smirk at using his official title. We've known each other for years and don't usually bullshit each other, but I'm a little nervous today.

 

“It's about time. You've had a lot of success as a novelist, but your main character—he's too soft, too predictable. He never gets his hands dirty,” Gale remarks.

 

I scoff at his assessment. “I've never had complaints before about Finnick, but I'm willing to hear you out.”

 

Gale shows his credentials to the guards, and they wave me through security as his guest. We start down the corridor Katniss disappeared down yesterday.

 

A clerk approaches the two of us in the hallway. “Lieutenant Hawthorne, you're needed for a line up.”

 

“Can you get someone else? I'm showing Mellark around today,” Gale replies to the clerk, motioning to me.

 

“No, the D.A. asked for you specifically,” the clerk says.

 

“Hey, Gale,” I say, reaching for his shoulder. “I'm not feeling so good anyway. Go on without me, and I'll catch up,” I offer.

 

I enter the men’s room as Gale follows after the clerk, removing my tie and slipping on a priest’s collar. I scratch my beard in the mirror and exit the bathroom.

 

_Finnick Odair had penetrated enemy headquarters, his mastery of disguise being legendary. Was this a trick? Were they actually aware of his brazen plan? Odair suspected this group of thugs was leading him into a trap. The nubile Russian guard hurled the door open, and he was brutally flung inside._

 

“Good morning, Father,” a woman says as she passes me in the hallway.

 

I nod to her and continue down the corridor. I start to waver as the sign for **Women’s Corrections Unit** gets closer. I pull myself together and approach the guard’s desk.

 

“I'm Father Heavensbee. Seneca Crane sent me. I'm here for a confession,” I state.

 

‘What did you do?” the guard asks.

 

“What?” I respond, flustered.

 

“Just kidding you, Father,” the guard laughs.

 

“Hilarious,” I mumble.

 

“Just through there. Ask for Mrs. Venia.”

 

“Thank you,” I say to the guard, heading to the other door. “Moron,” I mumble under my breath.

 

*****

I follow Mrs. Venia down a series of corridors. She reaches a door and ushers me across the threshold.

 

_Odair follows a group of thugs to the makeshift prison in their compound._

 

“Right in there, Father,” she says.

 

“Thank you,” I say, and a beat passes before I remember to make a clumsy cross with my hand before entering the room. “Bless you, my child.”

 

I survey the room. There's a wooden table, two metal chairs, and a hanging lamp. The room is tiled in a pale orange, with the morning light filtering in the room through barred windows. I begin to pace nervously, waiting for Katniss. Finally the door opens, and she breezes into the room, taking my breath with her. I stare at her, still dumbfounded by her presence. Her hair is plaited into a braid today, and she looks even younger, more innocent. She's wearing the same clothes from yesterday. Black boots, black dress.

 

I've memorized how to greet her in Panemanian, and she replies likewise, so I must not have flubbed it too bad.

 

“Erm, I was sent to hear your confession,” I stumble, moving a chair to take a seat. She does the same across the table and stares blankly back at me. Oh yes, the translation. I thumb through the bible I brought in my pocket for the Panemanian translation. I know I've butchered the pronunciation when she snorts in a fit of laughter.

 

“What did I say?”

 

“You said that a sea turtle swam away with your hat,” she giggles.

 

“So you _do_ speak English,” I say more than ask.

 

“Yes,” she states.

 

“You're beautiful,” I stutter, scanning her face and the deep olive tone of her skin.

 

She tilts her head.

 

“I mean your soul is beautiful. I've never met a soul I didn't like. Shall we begin?”

 

Katniss makes a sign of the cross and starts, “Bless me father, for I have sinned.”

 

“Good. Continue.”

 

Katniss smirks, seemingly amused. “I lied.”

 

“About what?”

 

“About speaking English,” she confesses.

 

“That's okay. Go on,” I encourage her.

 

“I stole. Bread. Two loaves,” she says.

 

“No problem, keep going,” I urge.

 

“I lied to my mother,” she whispers.

 

“About what?”

 

“It was for her own good,” she says resolutely.

 

Her confessions are child's play in the realm of good and evil. I relax in the chair. “I've done that before too. Of course, my parents never saw it like that, especially my mom. This one time, I snuck out of the house, took my father’s car, and ran it into a ditch. She was so angry…” I look up and see she's watching me, trying to stifle a laugh. I must be rambling again. Something about this girl simultaneously makes me nervous and puts me at ease. “I'm sorry, this is your time. Go on.”

 

“I had impure thoughts,” she says.

 

“Really? You did? I never believe it when I hear it,” I rattle on, lost in the potential for what her impure thoughts might entail. How impure could they possibly be for someone so angelic? The thought alone is enough to make me hot under the collar. I then reconsider the idea that maybe she already has a boyfriend. “Were the thoughts of anyone in particular?”

 

She cocks her head to the side. “I don't understand.”

 

With a quick sigh I clarify, “I mean...was it just random lust? Or are you having impure thoughts about someone on a steady basis?”

 

Understanding dawns on her face. “No. They are random thoughts.”

 

“Great!” I say and wipe my brow, thankful that there is not a steady someone for her to be having impure thoughts about.

 

“Worst of all—” she starts, and then I worry that there really is bad news coming. “I despaired,” she finishes.

 

“You despaired?” I ask, now it's my turn to be confused.

 

“Over my predicament,” she offers.

 

“Could you be more specific?”

 

“I lost faith that God will take care of me and my family,” she explains.

 

“That's it?” I ask, and she nods in reply. “That's all you want to confess?” I push.

 

“Yes,” she states.

 

“Are you certain? Take your time. You didn't cheat at cards...or drink too much?” I ask, waiting a beat. “Or murder anyone?”

 

Her gray eyes flash to mine, staring hard. “I did not commit the sin of murder.”

 

“I believe you,” I say, wanting to erase all doubt before I follow through on my plan.

 

“I could not lie before God,” she swears.

 

“That's right. You couldn't, could you? I can't tell you how happy that makes me to hear,” I say with utmost relief. Then remembering my charade, I add, “You're forgiven.”

 

“Aren't you going to give me a penance?” she asks.

 

“Penance? Right. Penance for your sins. I was just getting to that. Say 24 rosaries,” I suggest.

 

Katniss gives me a funny sideways glance before she kneels and, crossing herself, says a short prayer. My gaze lingers on her. She stands, and I follow suit, knocking over my chair with nervous energy.

 

_He decided to go ahead with it, his crazy plan. It was insane and he knew it._

 

I pull her small, warms hands into mine to get her to face me. “Now it's my turn to confess.”

 

“But I am not a priest,” she sputters, her eyes seeking mine for an answer, revealing her visible distress.

 

“Well, neither am I,” I admit.

She drops my hands and her temper flares, storms swirling in the once calm gray seas of her eyes. “You work for the police,” she accuses.

 

“No, I don't.”

 

“Who then? Snow? The Capitol?”

 

“I don't work for anyone.”

 

“I don't believe you,” she says and turns towards the door.

 

“I believe _you_. Please believe me,” I beg.

 

“I don't understand,” she pauses and turns back to me.

 

“I was in court when you were arraigned. Don't ask me why, but I just know that you are innocent. I want to help,” I explain.

 

“How?” she asks, spinning on her heels after a beat.

 

“I can give you an alibi,” I start, pleading with her. “I'm a very well respected figure in the courts. The evidence against you is weak and circumstantial, at best. If I tell them that you and I were—are—having an affair and that you were with me the whole week of the murder, then they'd believe me. They'd have to.”

 

She stares me down, and I squirm under her steely scrutiny.

 

“You know nothing about this,” she says, tipping her chin high.

 

“I don't care,” I shrug.

 

“Why are you doing this?”

 

“Because I—I don't know why. But I'm your last hope. Without me, or my alibi, they'll appoint some novice public defender who'll have you at Riker’s Island before you know it,” I say.

 

She hides her fists in her crossed arms, squaring her shoulders to me. “What do you want?”

 

“Nothing,” I hold my hands up in defeat. “Only if we say we're having an affair, it'd probably be best if we...for a little while at least...spend some time together. Act crazy with love for one another. To convince them. To make it seem credible.”

 

Her stare is unflinching. It levels me. “Do you want sex?”

 

“No, no! God, no,” which feels funny with this collar still latched around my neck. “Nothing like that.”

 

“What then? Love?” she continues.

 

“Well, I mean, if that happened, I wouldn't be one to stop it,” I say and search her untrusting eyes. “That was a stupid thing to say, I'm sorry. I'm usually very suave and don't say things like that. But you make me nervous. Look, I'm not the greatest guy in the world. But I have good points. I'm smart. I'm likeable. Wealthy. And I can help you.”

 

A beat passes as she considers her options.

 

“All I want is a chance to know you,” I beg.

 

“You _seem_ like a sweet man,” she offers with skepticism in her tone.

 

“I am. Yes. That's another one of my good points,” I allow.

 

“If I say yes, you must agree to a condition of mine,” she says.

 

“What?” I ask, with maybe too much enthusiasm. I didn't dare hope she'd actually agree to this crazy plan.

 

“That you don't ask about my life. That you know only what I tell you about me,” she states in measured pauses.

 

“That sounds fair,” I squeak.

 

“That's all I ask. Never go into my past. Do you promise?”

 

“I promise,” I swear to her.

 

“I did nothing wrong,” she repeats.

 

“I believe you,” I say in earnest.

 

“Now, what's the alibi?”

 

*****

“You know the penalty of perjury, right, Peeta?” Gale asks.

 

“It's not perjury,” I say calmly.

 

“You're going too far this time,” Gale threatens.

 

“The D.A. would be more than happy to be done with the case,” the A.D.A. reminds them. “You'll stand by this story, Peeta?”

 

I nod and Gale scoffs. The lawyers leave to question Katniss.

 

“You're out of your goddamn mind,” Gale starts.

 

“We had an affair. She was with me the whole week,” I explain.

 

“You don't know what you’re getting into here. What if she's guilty?” he poses.

 

“She's not,” I say.

 

“But what if she is? Consider the position that puts you in,” Gale says.

 

“What position?” I ask.

 

“You're the goddamn mystery writer, you figure it out. If she's not a murderer, then fine. Swell. But if she is, then there's only one thing standing between her and complete freedom,” he states.

 

“What?”

 

“You, asshole!” he sighs. “Think about it. While you're alive, there's always a chance you could rescind this alibi shit and send her back to jail. She knows that. But if you die before you rescind your alibi, it'd stand forever. Her freedom would be virtually guaranteed,” he pauses. “By your death.”

 

I try not to go as wide–eyed as I feel. I hadn't considered those consequences, but I believe her.

 

“She's innocent,” I proclaim as the lawyers file back into the room.

 

“The girl’s story matches, and she's talking like a love‒crazed schoolgirl in there,” the A.D.A. directs to me. “You're still standing by this, Peeta?”

 

“Yes,” I say, still looking at Gale.

 

“The D.A. says it's okay then,” the lawyer says.

 

“That's it?” I ask, expecting to dodge fireballs to get her out of jail.

 

“We've got some paperwork to do but, yeah, that's it,” he says, motioning to his aides to process Katniss and me.

 

A nervous smile sneaks across my face, even with Lieutenant Hawthorne shaking his head at me as I walk out of the room.

 

*****

 

I wait for Katniss to be processed by the guards. She appears around the corner, small valise in hand after she's released. She's chewing on her bottom lip.

 

As she walks toward me, I smile and offer her flowers.

 

“Hi,” I choke out.

 

“Hello,” she says firmly.

 

“These are for you,” I say, handing her the bouquet.

 

“Thank you,” she says with a tight-lipped smile and breezes past me.

 

“My car is out front and on the left.” I jog to catch up with her.

 

“No thank you,” she dismisses and turns right, walking in the opposite direction of his car on the street.

 

“But the alibi... they have to believe it.”

 

She stops and turns to me. “They already did.”

 

“They have to believe that we’re really together,” I huff. “Or you'll go back, and I'll be in a heap of trouble.”

 

She looks across the street, fear flashing across her face. “Yes. Let's go to your home.”

 

I follow her line of sight, not seeing anything threatening. Several cars, a man holding a bouquet, road construction.

 

“Okay, and remember, we’re madly in love, so it’s alright to kiss me anytime you feel like it,” I say to hopefully make her smile.

 

Her fear melts into an annoyed scowl and then laughter.

 

“Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind,” she says.

 

*****

As the miles increase between us and jail, I steal a few glances at her. She's watching everything, her face lighting up like a child at Christmas.

 

“What do you do in your spare time?” I ask, trying to start conversation.

 

“Nothing,” she replies as the car phone starts ringing.

 

“Sounds like fun,” I say and pick up the receiver. “Hello?”

 

“Is she with you?” Haymitch asks under his breath.

 

“Yes, and I’m very happy about it,” I say.

 

“Good, then get back to the typewriter!” he barks.

 

“Okay, nice speaking with you too,” I say and end the call. I turn to Katniss, “So we're going to have to cover the deep stuff.”

 

“The deep stuff?” she asks. “You remember my one condition, right?”

 

“Yeah, but this is more basic than that. Isn't it weird that you know that I'd risk my reputation for you, but I don't know your favorite color?”

 

A smile creeps onto her lips. “Green. What's yours?”

 

“It's orange,” I say.

 

She makes a face. “Orange? Like the fruit?”

 

“A bit more muted,” I say. “More like...sunset,” I describe.

 

Her face takes on a dreamy appearance, as if she's seeing it in her head too. The rim of the sinking sun, the sky streaked with soft shades of red, pink, yellow, and finally orange as they blend together.

 

“So what do you do?” she asks.

 

“I write books.”

 

“What do you write?”

 

“Mystery novels, thrillers...” I drift off.

 

“Oh…” she ponders.

 

“You're not impressed?” I surmise.

 

“No, I read only serious books,” she replies. “Are you sorry about this?” she asks, changing the subject.

 

“No. Not at all. Of course this isn't how I usually meet someone. My wife—she died a few years ago—we met in school. Her father was the mayor,” I say and turn off the highway.

 

We curve around a few bends before my house comes into view. The estate sprawls across 75 acres. The traditional clapboard house, complete with shutters on every window, stands tall against the meadow and forest in the distance. I forego the garage and park in front of the house. Katniss steps out of the car and gazes up at the house.

 

“How many people live here?” she asks and turns to me.

 

“Oh, just me,” I reply, trying not to boast about my wealth, as I reach around to grab her bag and flowers.

 

“It's beautiful,” she says, her face in awe.

 

I could say the same thing about her, standing in my doorway. I open the door and give her a brief tour— she'll have plenty of time to explore the grounds on her own.

 

“This is your room,” I say as I usher her into the guest room with the best view of the valley. There's a large, arched picture window across from the bed.

 

“It's lovely,” she says, whipping her head around to see everything in the room.

 

When she checks the closet, I pull some of my novels from a lower shelf to the bedside table. “Bathroom is down the hall,” I say, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is just down the hall, in case you need anything. You know, blankets, towels, extra hangers… unbridled passion,” I mumble the last part to myself and trip on the way out the door.

 

*****

I sit at my IBM computer as the full gravity of the situation settles over me. I tap away at the keyboard.

 

_Despite the multitude of exquisite beauties wanting a place in his bed, Odair had lived alone since his wife drowned several years before. But now, a stranger was living with him. An exotic, sensual creature whose obvious passion for Odair was barely contained beneath her cool facade._

 

_He couldn't believe that he'd actually gone through with it. He'd never done anything like this before. She was in his home now. He was excited but nervous. What if she really was a killer?_

 

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I sense I'm not alone. I turn to see Katniss looking around my study. I didn’t hear her climb the staircase. It's a creaky old thing too. She scans the room, eyeing the stacks of books. Some are mine, some are for research. She runs her finger across the spines of _Murder With Honor for my District_ , _Goodbye, Nightlock_ , _Murder by Panem_ , _Death of a Gamemaker_. Her eyes land on the _Playboy_ issue with an interview I did years ago. Why did I keep that out? She'll think I'm a pervert.

 

*****

 

A short time later we're seated at the table, enjoying dinner.

 

“What is this?” she asks, pointing her spoon into the bowl.

 

“I call it soup,” I tease.

 

“Oh, soap,” she says in understanding.

 

“No, soup,” I correct her. “Can I ask you a question?”

 

“It is not personal?” she confirms.

 

“No. What's the population of Panem?” I throw out there to get conversation started.

 

“4,556,778” she smiles, no doubt proud to have this fun fact at the tip of her tongue.

 

“And the districts?” I continue.

 

“There are thirteen separate districts that support the Capitol,” she replies.

 

“Do you have a boyfriend?” I slip into our question and answer session.

 

“The capital of Panem is called ‘Capitol’ in your language and has a population of 96,463 people,” she smirks, not answering my question. “It is ruled by an awful dictator, President Coriolanus Snow.”

 

_As the servants unobtrusively cleared away the remnants of Odair’s gourmet meal, he and the girl exchanged a sparkling repartee. His turn of phrases clearly had her entranced. Yet, perceptive as always, Odair knew she needed him. Without him, she'd be as helpless as a lost child, crying and hungry in the rain._

 

I’m lost in thought, trying to formulate my next sentence, wondering why she's looking at me with such intensity, and that's when I see the knife. She palms the handle, and with a flick of her wrist, she sends it flying toward me. It misses my head by mere inches and lands in the wall a few feet behind me, piercing a summer beetle.

 

“Aaaahhh,” I screech.

 

“I do not like bugs,” she shrugs.

 

“Well, neither do I, but I usually yell at them, stomp them with my shoe...or hit them with a rolled up newspaper. How did you do that?”

 

“I do not know,” she sputters. “It was um…”

 

“Instinct?” I pose as I pull the knife from the wall.

 

“Yes, instinct.” She shrugs off my terror. “I’m going to bed,” she says, slipping away.

 

_The cop’s earlier reminder rang loud in his ears, or was that the knife whizzing by his head that she hurled at a scorpion that threatened their evening? It was absurd. What if the cop was right and Odair was the only thing standing in the way of her freedom? He tried to relieve the tension by doing an extra hundred one-armed push ups, but it was no use. Do any of us know the person we fall in love with?_

 

I stare at my bedroom door, feeling exposed. I get up to lock the door and walk back to bed. No, I'm being foolish. She's innocent. I jump back up to unlock the door. Two steps away, the grisly crime scene photos come to mind as the Dozen described them, and I turn around to lock the door. I move a tall dresser in front of the door for good measure. Good, she should not be able to come through that. I've barely stabilized everything on top of the dresser when I hear her knocking on the door.

 

“Peeta?” she calls through it.

 

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath. “Just a minute,” I call, pushing the dresser out of the way, all the books I’d piled on top of it falling astray.

 

“Peeta…what are you doing?” she asks a little louder.

 

I finally open the door, allowing her passage into my bedroom. “I was just exercising,” I say to explain the delay and the sweat caused by my exertion.

 

“It looks like you were moving furniture,” she says, surveying the chaos.

 

“Yeah, well some people jog or lift weights. I move furniture,” I joke.

 

“You're a very odd man,” she says, smiling at me. It's such a glorious sight. I want to keep bringing that out in her.

 

“I take it that's a compliment?”

 

“No, but I just wanted to say goodnight and thank you,” she says, lifting up on her heels to plant the lightest kiss on my cheek. Her lips brush against the coarse hairs of my beard and she giggles. “That tickles,” she says, turning down the hallway toward her bedroom.

 

*****

I rise early after restless sleep and shave off my beard, not being able to wipe her soft kiss from my mind. The fresh-faced man in the mirror looks back at me, his blue eyes brighter and ashy blond hair shaggier than I remember it being.

 

I brush the waves off my forehead and head to the kitchen. I’ll make us a simple breakfast before heading into town today. I owe Haymitch my latest chapter, anyway.

 

Katniss stumbles into the dining room, yawning. She sets a novel down on the table next to her.

 

“Oooh, you look different,” she notes and yawns again.

 

“Yeah, I wanted a change,” I start and immediately regret this thread of conversation. My beard reminds me of my late wife and it did not seem right to keep it with Katniss in the house. I notice the novel Katniss has brought with her. “Ahh, _Goodnight, Nightlock_ , one of my favorites,” I begin again.

 

“The bed was too soft and I couldn't sleep, so I _knew_ this would help,” she says.

 

“Hmpf, well what did you think?” I ask.

 

“It was … How do you say? It is per….per… what is the word?” she fumbles.

 

I smile, eager for her input. “Perfect?” I suggest, rubbing my hands together.

 

“No,” she laughs lightly. “It is per….”

 

“Perceptive?”

 

“No, no. It is pre…”

 

“Precise?”

 

“Ah! Predictable!” she beams, proud of herself for landing on the word.

 

I toss my paper on the table. “I'm going to town.”

 

“Oh, I will go with you, yes?” she offers.

 

*****

We load up in the Suburban and back out of the garage. I mash the button on the door remote to close it. My eye catches back on the door as I put the truck in reverse. Something must be caught in the door tracks because it's stopped moving.

 

“Hang on,” I tell Katniss and jump out. The bottom of the door grazes my chest as I fiddle with it. I've never had any trouble with it before, so I'm stumped as to what the problem is now. I turn to wave at her for a moment before I reassess my options when I hear the engine rev and lunge toward me. I have a split second to jump up and land on the hood before I’m run over. Once I land, I'm wedged between the bottom of the garage door and the windshield. I’m pinned, with Katniss as my only hope.

 

“Oh Peeta, I’m so sorry,” she says through the glass.

 

“It’s okay,” I manage with my face against the windshield. “Just kill the engine.”

 

With one eye, I can see her pushing all of the buttons and twisting the knobs on the steering column. Before I know it, I’m shot in the other eye with windshield wiper fluid. And then the wiper descends on my eyebrow.

 

“The key! Turn the key—,” I start before my mouth fills with fluid. I spit it out and try again. I can hear the radio blaring too, she must have pressed every button on the dash. “Turn the key in the ignition toward you.”

 

With that, the car finally quiets and the wiper blades stop slapping me in the face. I inch out of the trap under the door and slide across my slippery hood.

 

“Whew, I’m going to go change. You—stay put,” I say to her and retreat into the house.

 

*****

 

I sneak a glance at her across the vehicle. Did she really try to run me over?

 

“I must have moved the…,” she starts.

 

“Gear shift,” I finish. “It’s okay. Accidents happen. Sinking of the Titanic…”

 

“It is your fault anyway,” Katniss says as she dabs at the cut on my forehead.

 

“Why is it my fault?” I balk.

 

“Because… you get all panicked and make me so nervous, and I don’t know what happened,” she explains.

 

*****

 

We separate in the general store. While I’m picking out some items in cookware, I see her inspect the store’s selection of knives. I duck behind a row of pots and pans to get closer without being seen.

 

The clerk is helping her select a particularly scary-looking one. “How about this one? They don't make them any stronger. It's surgical steel. Feel that edge,” he recommends.

 

I watch her test the weight of the knife in her hand, and a chill runs down my spine.

 

“Yeah, it is good,” she agrees.

 

The clerk rings her up, and she slips the sheathed knife into her bag.

 

I move from my hiding spot and catch up to her. “Find anything you need?”

 

“No. Are you ready?” she asks.

 

“Not quite yet. I need to check out with these items,” I say.

 

“Okay, I will wait outside for you,” she says and breezes through the door.

 

As I'm handing over cash to the clerk for my items, I catch sight of her out in the village green. It takes me a second to process what I'm seeing, but it looks like she's walking on her hands, to the delight of the children around her.

 

I walk out of the store, toting my goods. “Katniss?”

 

“I'm showing them how to walk on their hands!” she explains, as if this is normal, everyday behavior. “Now children, start with a wall to lean your feet against and then start walking,” she continues.

 

_She was the most remarkable person he had ever met. One minute she could walk on her hands to entertain children, and the next she could hurl a knife through the air with marksman precision. What could she have been before he met her?_

 

I look out the window onto the lawn.

 

_He couldn’t tell if she found him attractive. She was hard to read. Maybe it was stupid to think like that, since he didn’t know anything about her. Or if he could trust her. Had it really been an accident? What was she planning to do with the knife? And why would she tell him nothing? What if the Lieutenant was right? What if she didn’t find him attractive?_

 

After dinner, I take out the trash can out and up the steps, the metal rattling with every step. I catch sight of her in her bedroom.

 

_That night, Odair had to find out the truth for himself. He crept with leopard-like stealth to where he could observer her, unnoticed._

 

I climb the stairway ledge for a better view, reaching up on my toes to see over the roof eave. She's seated at the dressing table, applying ghostly white paint to her face.

 

_What strange, exotic ritual was he watching? Odair tightens his grip on the pistol in his hand._

 

As I clench my fists on the garbage can handles and subsequently shift my balance, I lose my footing on my perch and fall over. I yelp and manage a barrel roll down the steps, the metal clanging and crashing between risers. Her light switches off, cloaking her in darkness.

 

*****

 

_She peers out coldly into the darkness of the night, like a primeval predator observing her prey from the bedroom of the otherwise innocent-looking bungalow. And slowly, irreversibly, she draws the curtains._

 

Haymitch crumples the pages in his hands and looks up at me incredulously from where he sits in my study. “She did _that_?

 

“Of course not. It’s fiction,” I say.

 

“This is a dicey situation,” he surmises.

 

“Well, what do you want me to do? Quit writing it?” I scoff.

 

“Oh no. It's very promising. So, what happens next?” he asks.

 

“I’m not sure,” I admit.

 

“I thought you planned out your stories before you start them,” Haymitch says.

 

“Usually…this one is different,” I concede. “I'm going day to day on this one.”

 

“I'm sorry. Well, if it’s any consolation, this is your best work in years!” he cheers.

 

“Hmmm,” I nod in agreement. “With her around, this novel writes itself. I need her as much as she needs my alibi.”

 

“Do they sleep together?” he asks.

 

“I don't know, but I hope so,” I say.

 

“Where is she?” Haymitch redirects.

 

“I don’t know,” I say, looking out across the property. “Out somewhere, I suppose.”

 

“Probably out buying more knives,” Haymitch adds.

 

*****

 

Katniss returns from a bicycle ride just as I'm heading out the door to my barber.

 

“Bye, Katniss!” I say as I pass her.

 

“Oh, you are leaving? Is your friend still here?” she inquires.  

 

“He left. I’m going to go get a haircut,” I tell her.

 

“I will cut it for you!” she offers, pulling me back inside the house. “I used to cut my family's hair. I just need, what is the word,” she asks making the snipping motion with her fingers.

 

“No, no scissors here. I loaned them to my brother,” I fib.

 

“Ah yes, here they are,” she says as she retrieves a pair of scissors from a wall hook. The blades catch the light just enough to temporarily blind me.

 

“You know, longer hair is making a comeback. Let's just skip it,” I plead. “Those scissors look too dull to cut my coarse hair— it's a family trait.”

 

“Sit down,” she orders and grabs a kitchen towel to place on my shoulders. “Keep still or I'll cut you. You are such a nervous man.”

 

“No, I just look nervous when I'm relaxed,” I say, defeated as she starts snipping my hair.

 

“You make fun a lot, you hide your feelings in….what is the word?” she starts.

 

“Sarcasm,” I confirm.

 

“Yes, sarcasm. Why do you do that?” she asks.

 

“I don’t know,” I exhale, relaxing into her touch. As her fingers glide through my hair the snipping sounds from the scissors fade away. My eyes drift closed, and the tension drains from my body. She shifts behind my back, reaching all sides of my head to even out the length.

 

She swivels me around to face her. Her thigh slides between mine, trapping my knee. She tips my head up to look at her. I focus on a mole on her chest and the sweat beads that keep disappearing down her shirt.

 

“Move closer to me. Yes, closer,” she says as she tips my head forward to her chest.

 

I want to chase the drop of perspiration with my tongue. I inhale her scent. She smells of the woods. It's the most relaxed I've ever felt around her, and I try not to think about the nine inch scissors she's wielding so expertly. Her proximity is intoxicating, her touch loaded and heady.

 

“Almost done,” she says, her voice thick. She reaches for a mirror for me to inspect her work. “How do you like it?”

 

“Amazing. How was it for you?” I look up to catch her intense gaze, her pupils dilated to the point that I can barely see the rim of silver around them.

 

*****

 

I’m about halfway done with some minor fence repair when Katniss approaches me in the meadow. A few boards needed replacing, and I needed to stretch my legs. She observes me in silence, waiting until I finish and remove my work gloves.

 

“Hello, there,” I greet her.

 

“Hi. This is beautiful,” she says, gesturing to the meadow. “Peeta, what happened to your wife?” she asks cautiously.

 

“Like I told you before, we met when we were young and fell in love. She supported me when I was writing my first novel. We had fifteen years together,” I say, packing up my tools.

 

“Were you happy?” she asks while spinning a dandelion in her hands.

 

“We were. She had this idea though. She urged me to do more than write books, but to live too. She said that I wrote about life but never lived it.”

 

“She would be proud of you, yes?” she inquires.

 

“About?” I ask, because I'm not following her.

 

“Me. In giving me this ‘alibi’?”’ she explains. “It's something very different from your books.”

 

I nod my head in agreement.

 

“I do not fit in your world,” she assesses.

 

“Not entirely, no,” I agree with her.

 

“But you're doing something, yes!” she says with another one of her warm smiles.

 

“Yeah, I guess I am,” I pause at the sound of thunder and turn my face up to the sky. “It's going to rain.”

 

“So? We will dry. Does it not rain in your books?” she asks playfully. She extends her arms to feel the rain, and I'm caught staring at her.

 

“I guess it does,” I say, getting soaked.

 

She laughs as we both stand in the downpour.

 

*****

 

We both head off to take showers to warm up after getting caught in the rain. I hum a tune and can hear Katniss singing down the hall in her shower. We both step into the hallway at the same moment, steam escaping from the bathrooms and swirling in the air between us. Her towel is wrapped around her chest,while mine is knotted at my waist.

 

Her lips part in a small gasp as she takes in the sight of my bare chest. Her olive skin is flushed with the heat of the shower and sparkling from the water droplets still clinging to her body. She smiles and turns to her room, leaving me in the hallway, mouth hanging agape.

 

_They let their towels drop to the floor. His eyes explored every inch of her glistening, wet body. Her eyes roamed every inch of his muscled torso. He stalked purposely toward her, pulling their slick bodies together in a constricting embrace. He covered her mouth with his, swallowing her moans and stroking her tongue. They kissed. She nearly passed out from the rapture of the moment, but Odair was familiar with this reaction. Her breasts squashed against the hard planes of his chest as he pressed her against the hallway wall. He lifted her lithe body up to wrap around him. “Make love to me, Finnick,” she cooed into his ear, and he slid his manhood into her eager, moist center. She clawed at his back like a wildcat trying to escape a cage as he pushed farther into her, over and over.The priceless art rattled on the wall in time with the force of his thrusts until the frames fell to the ground and they climaxed together in perfect synchronicity. He gathered her into his arms as her body went limp to retire to his bedroom._

 

*****

 

THWACK.

 

I watch as Katniss practices with my bow and arrow at a target in the backyard.

 

“Careful. It's not as easy as it looks. Remember your form. You have to allow for wind, arrow weight,” I instruct from the house. THWACK. She’s hitting the bullseye. She’s good.

 

“And don't hit my neighbor’s dog,” I joke.

 

The sound of the phone ringing brings me back into the house. I snatch up the cordless phone and turn back to the open French doors to continue watching Katniss.

 

“Mellark residence,” I state on the phone line.

 

“Oh hey, Mellark, it’s Lieutenant Hawthorne. You’re still alive!” he jokes.

 

“Yes, thank you,” I say.

 

“So, how's it going with your….affair?” Gale asks.

 

“That's none of your business. In fact, you know what your problem is?” I ask, watching Katniss continue to nail the bullseye.

 

“No. What's my problem?”

 

“You're jealous because you've never had a decent relationship.”

 

“Is that so?” he asks.

 

“Yes, the right woman will change everything. It's the greatest thing in the world. It makes you want to skip down the street, to yell out in joy all the time. Do you have that in your life?” I ask, turning back into the room to retrieve my wine glass.

 

“No. Tell me about it.”

 

An arrow soars through the open doors and lands firmly in my thigh while my back is turned.

 

“AAAAAAHHHHH,” I scream in agony, falling to the floor.

 

“Okay, okay. I didn't ask for a fucking recital,” Gale says.

 

I cringe in pain, trying to get up and finish this conversation without arousing too much suspicion.

 

“Look, I'm sorry. Maybe I am a little jealous of you. She's a beautiful girl,” he admits in a hushed tone.

 

“Exactly,” I reply, stumbling around the room in increased suffering.

 

“What's she like?” Gale asks.

 

“It's hard to explain,” I say and test the arrow embedded in my leg. “AAAAAHHHH!” It's definitely lodged into the meat of my thigh.

 

“That good, huh?”

 

“Good,” I wail and try to sit down on the sofa.

 

“Listen, pal, am I interrupting something there?”

 

“Yes. Yes, you are,” I say in effort to get him off the phone line as Katniss rushes into the room.

 

“What, man? Come on, you can tell me. What's happening over there?”

 

“Thanks, Gale,” I say and turn to Katniss. “Don't touch the shaft!”

 

“Let me try!” she cries and grapples with the arrow, twisting it in my thigh.

 

“No, owwwwww. You're pulling too hard,” I cry. “We’re going to need help doing this!”

 

“She's an animal,” Gale says over the line, sounding a bit awed.

 

I already forgot he was on the phone. Must be the searing pain. “Goodbye, Gale,” I say and turn off the cordless phone.

 

“We must go to the hospital,” she says.

 

“AAAAAHHHHH,” I scream into a sofa cushion.

 

Katniss helps me up and lets me lean on her to limp to the truck.

 

“Watch the tip!” I warn when she slams the door on my ass.

 

She doesn't even wait for the garage door to lift before she backs out, taking the door down and rolling over it. “What does this word ‘yield’ mean?” she asks.

 

“I thought you said you drove in Panem!!” I howl from the back seat.

 

“This is how we drive in Panem,” she says.

 

“AAhhhh!” I say, getting jostled around.

 

“I didn't see the dog, it jumped at me from behind,” she explains.

 

“It was an accident. Don't blame yourself,” I say closing my eyes to the wild ride I'm on.

 

“I am not. What are you going to tell the doctor?” she asks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

 

“That I shot myself,” I say.

 

“With a bow and arrow?” she says doubtfully.

 

“I didn't know it was loaded,” I say and groan over another bump in the road.

 

“How can you make jokes at a time like this?” she asks and barely misses a curb, causing the truck to jostle again. “We are here!”

 

*****

 

Later that night, I curl up on my bed. I'm writing longhand since my leg is bandaged and I’m on bedrest.

 

_The cold, steel shaft of the arrow pierced his sinewed shoulder. The pain would have been unbearable for the average man, but Odair simply pulled it cleanly from the wound. At the same time, his amazing instincts told him something was wrong with the girl’s story. Was it an accident? Should he believe the story about the dog? Why couldn't he think straight? Was he so enamored with this woman that he'd continually put himself in harm’s way? He couldn't continue like this. Something had to give. He needed to confront her._

 

I'm distracted by a splash outside. I look out my window and see Katniss, naked, swimming in the pool. She's still so pure.

 

_He decided to wait a little while._

 

I'm awoken by my door creaking open and the curtains fluttering in the breeze from my open window. I stir and sit up in bed. Katniss glides into my room like an apparition, wind blowing her hair in dark, ominous swirls around her. Her robe falls off her shoulders, and she climbs onto my bed, straddling my body.

 

“I love you, Peeta,” she whispers.

 

I kiss her. Hard. Passionately. She melts under my hold. I open my eyes to look at her again. Only it's not the same Katniss. Her face is painted white like when I saw her the other week. She raises her arm and holds the knife.

 

“Katniss?” I plead.

 

The knife changes to the scissors and descends toward my chest.

 

I lurch awake from my nightmare to find my dresser in front of my bedroom door again. I’m dripping with sweat, but one thing is for sure….my guard is back up with her.

 

*****

 

“Well, I hope you've learned some things in the past few weeks. Become handy with a knife yourself or something for self-defense,” Haymitch warns. “Lest she make another attempt on your life.”

 

“I don't know. I think it's just a series of accidents,” I say to a very doubtful Haymitch.

 

He gives me a look of incredulity. “There's no such thing as accidents. Just plans other people make and never tell you about. You don't really think she's trying to kill you, do you?”

 

“No. Yes. Maybe. No,” I huff. “Of course not. I don't know. When she's around, and I'm not, you know, scared for my life, she stimulates every part of me—especially my creativity, and the words fly from my head to the page,” I explain.

 

“Well, that I’m glad to hear. She better be a firecracker in the sack, at least.”

 

“I wouldn't know.” I admit.

 

“You haven't slept with her!?” Haymitch exclaims, much to the annoyance of other patrons in the quiet bookstore.

 

“Shhhhh! It's not about sex. I'm falling in love with her. Can't you tell I'm a man in love?” I wipe my forehead. “I get a nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach. I have the cold sweats that break out suddenly. The tension, the angst, the uncertainties,” I continue.

 

“Clearly,” he says.

 

“No, but the story just...flows with her,” I say, catching her eye from across the bookstore. She's been reading and lifts her head to seek me out as well. I internally cringe when I see that she's reading Cato Harris’ latest novel. “I need her to write the story. I'm not creating it, remember?” I say and turn to him. “We are, _together_. I don't know what happens next.”

 

“Make it up,” he offers.

 

“No, I can't. I won't. It won't ring true. I need her to finish the book.”

 

“So what's the issue? Keep her around, keep being human target practice,” he jokes.

 

“I have to go deeper now. I need details and facts about her. Who she is, where she came from,” I explain.

 

“Ask her,” he says.

 

“I told you, I can't. I promised her,” I remind him.

 

“Then do some of your own investigating,” he suggests.

 

“Have you never kept a promise to anyone?” I ask.

 

“No,” he says.

 

I frown at his inability to understand. I love her and I'm terrified of her.

 

*****

 

I’m sitting in my study, staring at the computer screen when I see Katniss approaching in the window reflection.

 

“Finished!” she announces, placing my novel down on the desk next to me. “This...uh… gen…”

 

“Genre?” I supply.

 

“Yes, genre has possibilities,” she says and sits by the window behind me

 

“I look forward to that,” I say over my shoulder.

 

“This character, your Detective Odair, he never makes love to the women he helps. Is he gay?” she asks point blank.

 

I swivel around in my chair to face her. “No. It’s a code he lives by,” I splutter.

 

“Why?” she asks again.

 

“Because it’s what I want,” I state, growing frustrated.

 

“And what you want is how it is?” she parses.

 

“Yes. What I want is how it is. I’m the writer,” I say with finality.

 

“Are you angry at me? Peeta, what is it?”

 

“Who are you?” I ask because I need to know.

 

“What do you mean?” she whispers. “I told you not to ask me this question. Please do not be angry with me. It is better if I don’t tell you,” she pleads.

 

“I’m not angry. I’m falling in love with you, and I don’t know anything about you,” I admit, shocking myself and her into silence for a moment. I shouldn’t have said that.

 

She is wide-eyed and quiet, absorbing my admission. “I will go,” she offers and rises from the window seat, no doubt scared.

 

“No, don’t go. I want to know,” I demand, trying to sound stronger than I feel. I want to know but I also don’t want to lose her. Nothing is stopping her from walking out the door. It’s been several weeks and the state police seem convinced of my alibi.

 

“What do you want to know?” she challenges.

 

“Did you kill that man?” I ask her with an intense stare.

 

She storms out of the room. I return to my writing.

 

_He was falling apart. The always cool and suave Finnick Odair was forgetting things. Losing things. Something had to give. The game pieces needed to move. She must either become his mistress or his murderess. He would either become a lover or a victim, maybe both._

 

*****

 

Noises from her bathroom distract me from writing. I sneak down the hallway and see a flash of metal under the light. The knife! She's coming for me!

 

_The glare of the weapon reflected in his eye, but he had faced death a thousand times before. He waited for her to make the first move. Had his questions pushed her to the edge? He had to hide from her before she could use it!_

 

I slip into my room, listening for her.

 

_Odair coolly stood his ground, daring her to come and get him._

 

I move the dresser across the door again, expecting the worst. I turn around, and she’s standing there.

 

“AAAAH!” I gasp. I forgot about my bathroom door being an alternate access.

 

“Erm, you’re exercising?” she asks playfully.

 

“What are you doing here?” I ask and tense as she approaches me.

 

“For you,” she says, handing me a bouquet of yellow dandelions, tied together with twine. Her hands are otherwise empty, so she must have used the knife making the arrangement.

 

I release a sigh of relief and accept the flowers. “For me?”

 

“I was waiting for you to tell me how you feel about me. You hide your emotions so well in words,” she notes.

 

“Well, at least I'm not hiding who I am,” I say in defeat.

 

“I owe you so much and tell you so little. All you need to know is that I'm having the same feelings,” she admits.

 

Her look melts me and dissipates all tension from the moment. She leans in to brush her lips against mine.

 

I start slowly, my lips lingering over hers to ensure that this is really happening. I infuse the kiss with the desire that’s been building since I saw her in that courtroom.

 

She opens her mouth to me, inviting my tongue to move swiftly against hers. To taste, to sample, to stroke.  

 

“My throbbing passion cave aches to feel the firmness of your love spear,” she recites into my ear as I kiss her neck.

 

I pull back to look at her, not sure I've heard her correctly.

 

“I'm sorry?” I say and kiss her neck.

 

“Grab my twin lust pears and suck my nectar with your carnal tongue,” she continues in my ear.

 

“What?” I ask, even more stunned.

 

“My tongue wants to battle yours for dominance—” she says.

 

“Wait a minute. What are you saying?” I ask, not sure I want to know.

 

“Words of love,” she answers with a slight tilt in her voice at the end.

 

“ _Whose_ words of love?” I ask again.

 

“Yours, from your magazine stories,” she says and points to the _Playboy_ magazine.

 

“You read that?” I ask, incredulous.

 

“I didn't know your words of love, or sex, so I memorized them,” she admits and bites her lip. “Isn't this what Americans say?”

 

“I don't believe it,” I say and stifle a laugh.

 

“What is so funny?” she asks and backs away from me. “Nevermind this.”

 

I try to catch hold of her as she pulls away to hug herself.

 

“Stop. You're adorable. I love it,” I tell her in earnest. “How could I have ever doubted you?”

 

“You were laughing at me,” she says.

 

“I wasn't,” I say and pause. “I take that back. Yes, I was. But not at you. Just at what you were saying. You don't need to memorize anyone's words of love,” I say and kiss her neck. “Let it come out naturally, in any language.”

 

She lets me hold her tightly and relaxes into my embrace. She begins to whisper in my ear in Panemanian and wraps her arms around my neck.

 

“What does that mean?” I ask her between kisses.

 

“Love spear,” she smiles.

 

I laugh and return my attention to her breasts, or ‘lust pears,’ as she called them.

 

I want to feel as much of her skin as possible. The olive tone has been a beacon, shining bright and drawing me in to taste it. I pull at the strap of her dress to kiss her shoulder. Her dress falls to the floor, and she stands nearly nude before me. I pull her onto the bed with me and twist us as to not crush her. She dots kisses along my jawline and down my neck until she’s unbuttoning my shirt. Her fingers glide through the hairs of my chest and down to my fly. Releasing me from my pants, we roll together on the bed, alternating kissing with our explorations of each other’s bodies. I peel her underwear down to dip a finger through her thatch of hair and find she’s incredibly wet.   

 

I hope I’m not terrible at this, it’s been so long. I maneuver between her legs, her knees bent at my hips. She guides me in and kisses me until I’m buried within her. I rock into her and admire the view of her sprawled out before me. Of me sliding inside her. I skate my hand along her calf to keep touching her. I grasp her thigh to hitch it up over my hip. With one arm locked around her thigh to keep it against my body, I reach across her to clasp our palms together with my other hand. Her body is completely bowed to mine and maximizing our skin contact. I have her under my tender control.

 

Her other leg wraps around mine, her heel digging into my calf to ensure that our bodies remain connected.

 

I speed up my thrusts, snapping my hips to hers in a rhythmic dance, grinding myself against her public bone. Her eyes beckon me for a kiss, and I lean over her, stretching her body to the limits. Our lips brush in one, two, three passes, and then I feel her muscles gripping me, pulling me in deeper.

 

“Oh, Peeta,” she exhales as she rides out her orgasm.

 

I let go too. I release all of my fears, anxieties, everything that's been worrying me about this woman. I fill her with the ardor I'm experiencing in this moment. I wish it could last forever.

 

She whispers in Panemanian to my sweat-slicked skin.

 

“What does that mean?” I ask hesitantly.

 

“My loins are sated now,” she giggles.

 

*****

_Odair poured himself a bourbon and watched from the patio as she dove into the azure Mediterranean. The tension was finally snapped. Fear had been replaced by passion. This wasn't just lust. It was an outlet for everything they had been holding back. It was pure. He felt assured of it. She was no murderess. This was the best sex of his life. He’d never felt happier. Or safer_.

 

I've just taken a sip of my chocolate milk and stepped through the back door to join Katniss in the pool when a loud explosion vaults me to the ground. I vaguely register that my house is on fire as I slip out of consciousness.

 

Loud booms continue to echo in my ears.

 

*****

 

“Lieutenant, the fire chief says it could have been a gas leak or maybe even some kind of bomb,” a deputy relays.  

 

“Oh yeah? And where was she?” Lieutenant Hawthorne asks.

 

“In the pool, swimming,” I reply as I lie in a pool lounge chair, bandaged. Firemen are still working on my house in the distance.

 

“How convenient,” he says and walks away.

 

I can feel Katniss’ hands on my shoulders pause slightly in their reassuring pats.

 

*****

 

“Haymitch, I need to quit,” I tell him over the phone from my brother’s house.

 

“Quit? Give up? Are you crazy? I've never seen the guys upstairs so excited about anything!”

 

“You showed them the chapters?” I ask. Unbelievable.

 

“I had to, and they're going bananas over it. They're talking a huge release, maybe Christmastime,” he rambles. “They're lining up all the talk shows, even Flickerman and Templesmith. This book is going to put you back on top, Peeta. You can't stop now.”

 

I can hear the greed in his voice, and I know I can't get out of my contract anyway. The publishers will want to print this.

 

I push a smile on my face, “Okay, Haymitch, I'll keep writing.” I hang up the phone and rejoin the group congregating on the lawn.

 

*****

 

“I don’t want to hear another word about it...Rye and I are ecstatic to have you stay with us,” Delly says while tossing a green salad.

 

“You’re very generous,” Katniss says while folding the napkins for their barbeque lunch. She steals a glance at me on the other side of the grill.

 

“Yes, we are. But that’s not the point,” she simpers and finishes preparing the food. “Rye Junior!!” Delly shouts at the children playing in the distance. “Be careful with that ladder!”

 

I stare blankly ahead while I’m supposed to be watching the burgers on the grill.

 

“Peeta, wake up!” Rye jeers, slapping me on the back.

 

“Oh shit, I’m sorry,” I say and step aside to let him salvage the food. “Thanks again for letting us stay with you, Rye.”  

 

“Forget about it, Peeta. Delly and I are happy to have you and Katniss here,” he says, tucking his wife in at his side. “It's the least we could do after your house blew up.”

 

I watch Katniss wander off to the other side of a fence to greet a large horse. Rye and Delly live fairly close to me on a sprawling estate, complete with a barn and stables.

 

“Absolutely, Peeta. Katniss is just a darling little thing. How old is she?”

 

“Twenty-four,” I say. “According to her student visa,” I grumble more to myself. It's not like she told me.

 

“Twenty-four, huh? That's just... swell,” Rye leads, and I can feel the judgment there. “Hun, look at that. She’s put the bridle bit on the horse.”

 

“Why is that odd?” I ask.

 

“It’s an old horse. We got him for Rye Jr. and Gwen from a circus, but he doesn’t normally let anyone get that close,” Delly explains.

 

“Except for Katniss,” I correct her.

 

“How are you doing really, Peeta? We're worried about you. We're family—you can open up to us,” Delly offers.

 

“I’m fine,” I say, watching Katniss and the horse.

 

“Yeah, we know you’re a loner. You pride yourself on being cool and aloof, just like your lone wolf character. Something’s bothering you though,” Delly says with concern.

 

“We’re all worried about you, baby brother,” Rye chimes in.  

 

“You are?” I ask, taken aback by their interest.

 

“We want you to open up to us—we’re family, after all,” Delly encourages. “For once, just drop your facade and let it all come out. C’mon!”

 

“Talk to us Peeta, why won’t you open up to you own brother?” Rye adds.

 

“I’m an emotional wanderer,” I start and dig deep to open up my heart. “When Madge died, I gave up. Couldn’t move on. Hardened my resolve against ever falling in love again. Then I met Katniss. She awakens emotions in me that I thought were long gone. She makes me feel like no one else has, ever.”

 

I can see Delly tasting her salad out of the corner of my eye, but I think I’ve still got her attention.

 

“In one way, she’s perfect,” I continue. “But she’s a stranger living in my house. And I have doubts. Who doesn’t doubt the person they fall in love with at some point? There’s always a part of someone that you never know,” I ask myself, apparently. My brother and his wife are focused on the salad. I shake my head in disbelief.

 

“Wait, wait, Peeta. Did you say there’s a stranger in your house?” Delly asks.

 

“Dad! Rye is stuck on the roof!” Gwen shouts from the barn.

 

“Christ!” Rye yells, rushing to the barn to help his son.  

 

“I’m coming!” I yell, helping Rye with an old oil drum to climb up the side of the barn. Rye grabs the gutter for a handhold and rips it off, crashing down and taking me with him in the fall.

 

I stagger up. “I’ll get that ladder.” I jog to the ladder, but it’s long and heavy. I swing it back and forth to get it up against the barn and break a few windows in the process, sending glass shattering down on everyone.

 

“Do something!” Delly screams at Rye. “He’s going to fall off the gable.”

 

“I’m trying,” Rye barks back at her.

 

“Don’t you dare move, those shingles are loose!” Delly cries up at him.

 

Katniss gallops around the barn on the old horse as we struggle with the ladder. I run after her to see what happens next, Rye, Delly, and Gwen behind me. Katniss stands on the horse’s back to reach a rope hanging down from the barn gable. We watch in stunned silence as she begins to climb the rope to reach the loft door. She swings on the rope and reaches for the eave, pulling herself to the roof crest. She walks along the roofline to the other side of the barn toward Rye Jr.

 

_Odair realized the fate of the child lay in his hands. Unconcerned for his own safety, Odair scaled the towering wall of the embassy, bracing himself against the powerful alpine winds. Calmly, he walked the crest of the roof, at least 300 feet above the cold slate of the courtyard._

 

Katniss’ grip loosens on the roof, and several shingles fall in front of Rye and Delly.

 

“Oh my god,” Delly cries.

 

_The tile broke in his grasp, and the startled screams of the women watching rose like prayers from far below._

 

“Am I going to fall?” Rye Jr. asks as Katniss approaches him.

 

“Of course not, be still,” Katniss instructs.

 

_Finally, Odair reached the terrified child and, holding him tightly, swung into the open bay window of the embassy, into his mother’s outstretched and eternally grateful arms._

 

From my vantage point on the ground, I can see her swing him into the loft door closest to them, and she lands next to him.

 

Delly claps and cheers for Katniss.

 

“What did you say she did back in Panem?” Rye asks with a cocked eyebrow.

 

“Pharmacist?” I squeak.

 

*****

 

After the rescue commotion dies down, we eat our now very well done burgers and relax for the rest of the afternoon. I steal away for a few minutes to write.

 

_He loved her and feared her at the same time. She was part-performer, part-mystery, part-mountain climber. There was no question in his mind. He had to discover the truth about her._

 

I’m dying to ask Katniss these questions, but I want to stay true to my word.  I pass by our bedroom and hear her talking to someone in Panemanian on the phone. I can’t make out much of the conversation through the door, but I hear one word being repeated. ‘In momentarium.’

 

_Odair, being an expert linguist, recognized the word from the time he spent behind the iron curtain._

 

I search around in my bag in the study for the Panemanian dictionary to find the words I heard. ‘In momentarium, In momentarium,’ I repeat to myself so as not to forget it. As I scroll through the dictionary, a weary feeling washes over me. ‘In momentarium’ is the word for ‘funeral.’

 

*****

 

Katniss makes the group lamb stew for dinner. I stand behind her at the stove. It smells amazing. I skim my knuckles along her lower back. She leans into my touch, seemingly reluctant to go.

 

“Do you really have to go?” I whisper into her ear.

 

“Yes, it is a Panemanian tradition. The youngest maiden, usually a virgin,” she winks at me, “must prepare a meal for the household and leave. In my absence, you must toast to my health.”

 

“When will you be back? Haymitch and Effie are coming tonight too,” I add.

 

“Until later. Also, you must keep one chair empty for me,” she relays and washes her hands at the sink.

 

“I think it’s a charming custom,” Delly says as she drifts through the kitchen to let her cat in the back door.

 

“Well, I’ve never heard of it,” I claim and try to take a bite with the stirring spoon.

 

“No Peeta, it is bad luck!” she chides me as she takes off her apron.

 

“Where will you go?” I ask, backing away from the stove.  

 

“For a walk,” she says simply and kisses me goodbye.

 

Left alone in the kitchen, I’m tempted to try a bite of the heavenly smelling stew when an old orange cat swishes around my leg. He jumps up onto the counter to sniff out the stew too.

 

“Get away from there, Buttercup!” I yell at the cat and then have a second thought. I guess he can have some after all and dish up two spoonfuls into this bowl. The cat laps it up eagerly.

 

*****

 

“And there I was, standing in my study when the arrow skewered me while I was on the phone with the cop,” I recount to the people around the table. “I thought she did it on purpose!”

 

“On purpose?” Delly laughs, red in the cheeks from the wine we’ve all been drinking. “Whatever for?”

 

“You’re kidding,” taunts Rye, to more laughter around the table.

 

“But wait, there’s more! I thought she blew my house up too! With me in it! Can you believe that?” I ask, tears of laughter in my eyes.

 

“You thought she tried to blow up your house???” Effie cries with laughter.

 

“Yeah, I’m an idiot,” I admit. “But I love her. She’s broken me out of my shell. How could I ever suspect her of anything?” I look around the table to shrugs and snickers. “Here’s to Katniss!”

 

“Here, here! Compliments to the chef!” rings out across the dinner table. Rye, Delly, Haymitch, and Effie all call for seconds on the lamb stew. I rise to go to the kitchen.

 

“They’re an adorable couple,” Delly sniffs.

 

I’ve just caught sight of Buttercup sleeping by his bowl, just inside the back door.

 

“What did you think of the stew Buttercup? Did you have too much?” I approach the motionless cat and see it’s not even breathing. I crouch down next to him to pat him and feel he’s stiff as a board. “Buttercup?”

 

Panic seizes me as I look between the cat and the bowl. I rush back to the others.

 

“SHE POISONED US!” I yell. “It's Nightlock Poison! I know it! I researched it for a book, but this must be diluted since we’re still alive.”

 

The crowd laughs at me, likely thinking that I'm calling wolf again.

 

“No, it's true. The cat had some stew, and now it's dead!”

 

“Buttercup?” Delly yelps and pops up to check the cat. “Awwww, Buttercup. Oh my god! It’s true!”

 

Chaos ensues as Effie springs into action. “I know what will make us vomit. I’ll mix it up,” she calls while running into the kitchen.

 

“That’s why she left, don’t you see? There’s no tradition. She just wanted to kill us,” I say somberly.

 

“Why couldn’t she just kill you?” Haymitch asks, starting to sweat.

 

“How could you fall in love with a murderer?” Delly flails.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m such an idiot,” I repeat.

 

“Everyone, everyone! I mixed an antidote and used the liquid drain opener,” Effie screeches.

 

Rye tries Effie’s concoction and spits it out immediately. “I’d rather die than drink that!” he yells.

 

“We should go to the hospital to get our stomachs pumped,” Haymitch suggests.

 

“We should try to throw up first, in case we don’t make it,” Delly adds.

 

We all run to the back porch and lean over the railing, cramming fingers down our throats, anything to trigger the gag reflex, but it’s not working.

 

“Come on everyone, let’s just go to the hospital,” I call to the group.

 

We load up into my Suburban, since I now know the route to the hospital by heart.

 

Effie and Delly trade off time on the car phone, calling their kids to tell them goodbye and that they love them.

 

“We're here!” I call to them as I screech into the parking lot.

 

*****

 

“That was the worst experience of my life,” grouses Delly in a hoarse voice.

 

“I've never had anything that large stuck down my throat before,” Effie croaks as we trudge back to the house from my truck. The last few hours have been grueling.

 

“That's not what I've heard,” Haymitch chimes in.  

 

“Be nice,” I chastise them. “We've all been through the same ordeal.” Out of the corner of my eye, I vaguely recognize Rye’s neighbor approaching us. There is a different car in front of the house— maybe he drove over.

 

“Say, Rye, I need to talk to you about something,” the man starts.

 

“Not now, Thom, this really isn't a good time,” Rye says.

 

“It's about your cat,” he says, and the group stops in their tracks to pay attention. “I was in my basement earlier, and it ran in there with me. I was working on the wiring to the water heater, and, anyway, it was electrocuted by the fuse box. I knew you were having a dinner party,” he pauses, looking at the disheveled state of the group. “And I didn't want to walk in with a dead cat. So I slid it in the backdoor.”

 

Everyone turns to glare at me, and I wince. It wasn’t Katniss. It was an accident that the cat died.

 

Probably sensing everyone’s collective horror, Thom says, “Look, I’m sorry. I'll get you a new cat, alright?”

 

Rye waves him off. I feel the weight of their disgust with me and turn to walk into the house. I step across the threshold as Katniss comes toward me at full gait with her bag slung across her body.

 

“You came back?” I ask, astonished.

 

“I found your notes, Peeta. I know you've asked around about me. I read what you wrote,” she accuses.

 

“Try and understand why then, Katniss,” I plead.

 

“I know why. You think I'm a murderer,” she says.

 

“I don't think that,” I say.

 

“You wrote it in your book!” she yells, gathering the attention of the group.

 

“Well, I'm open to seeing the other side too,” I say and open my arms, waiting for an explanation.

 

“Did you give me this alibi for your book?” she huffs.

 

“No, I did it because I knew you were innocent,” I state. “And I've fallen in love with you.”

 

“You do not love me— you're afraid of me!” She stops to wipe back a tear. “And it's not real.”

 

“It was— _is_ — real,” I correct myself. “And fear is a healthy part of any relationship.”

 

She rolls her eyes and shuffles past me to head toward the unfamiliar car in the driveway.

 

“I’m going,” she says.

 

“Where?” I ask. “Oh wait, you can’t tell me.”

 

“I cannot,” she confirms.

 

I reach out to grab her hand. “Katniss, you can’t go!”

 

“I'm not a character in your book. You didn't invent me. I do as I choose, and now I choose to go. Let me go,” she demands as she slams the car door shut.

 

“I can't,” I say, feeling my heart splintering. It's only then that I notice the driver. A younger, fairer version of Katniss is shooting me daggers with her eyes. They speed off into the night.

 

*****

 

I finally get her backstory from Thresh through the one word I was able to pick up, ‘in momentarium.’ It led him to the Funeral of Flavius, and the Panemanian tradition of honoring one of the great circus performers. He cross-referenced the performers and found that the whole Everdeen family is a part of the act. The Funeral isn't a funeral after all, but a celebration that all circus would-be performers will be attending. I smack my head as to why I didn't see it sooner—the deadly precision with knives, her archery skills, the walking on hands, the rope climbing, all of it. She's a circus stunt performer.

 

“That's only half of it,” he relays over the phone.

 

“There's more?” I ask, incredulous.

 

“Yeah, I have a buddy at INS, who's still pretty tight-lipped about it, but from what I can make out, the guy she killed—”

 

“She didn't kill anybody,” I interrupt.

 

“Right, the guy she _didn't_ kill was bringing people into the States. They think high-level diplomats are involved,” Thresh explains.

 

“Like Snow? What do they know about Katniss?” I ask.

 

“No more than you do, which I know...isn't much,” he pauses. “There's a lot of theories, but very little evidence. And the people that get smuggled out aren't exactly going to come forward to talk about it,” he says.

 

“So I'll never see her again?” I ask, more to myself.

 

“Not unless she's at the Funeral of Flavius,” he suggests.

 

“And when is that?” I ask, looking at my watch.

 

“Today at 4pm,” he says. “In New Jersey.”

 

I look at my watch, it’s already noon. “Shit, I've got to go—thanks, Thresh. I owe you buddy,” I say rushing to get off the phone. I need a plan. And back up. And very little time to make it happen.

 

*****

 

“Everyone says my work is detached, that my character is too soft— well, I'm going to make him real now,” I say to Haymitch as we drive to the Funeral of Flavius disguised as clowns to fit in at the circus celebration.

 

“Frankly, one of my favorite parts about your books is that they are predictable,” he shrugs. “It’s very comforting to readers.”

 

I level him with a look that says this is not the time for constructive criticism and find a parking spot on the fairgrounds.

 

“Will this be in the book?” he asks as we approach the gates.

 

“I don't know yet,” I say, scanning the crowd for Katniss.

 

_Odair, now attired in his customary tuxedo and accompanied by his hulking Slavic bodyguard, slipped into the elegant ballroom where he would rub elbows with the upper crust of society._

 

The tent is crowded with all sorts of clowns and performers. I’ll never recognize her here with so many painted faces. I’m about to give up hope until I see her dark braid, swishing around as she whips her head back and forth. We make eye contact. Time stops when I see her again, just like it had in the courtroom. Her face is painted white, and her scalp is hidden under a hair net. There’s a green diamond etched around her right eye, and her lips are red. She’s never looked more beautiful than in this moment. We rush toward each other until I’m holding her again.

 

“Peeta! I’m with my parents—we are trying to defect from Panem. I was going to tell you,” she starts to explain.

 

“Katniss, I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have trusted you.”

 

I lean in to reach her lips, but my red clown nose gets in the way until I fling it aside. I gather her in my arms and kiss her, moulding my lips to hers and stroking her tongue with my own. She returns the kiss in earnest, and time melts away, if only for a moment.

 

She tenses in my arms and points to a man approaching us, also dressed like a clown.

 

“That man, he’s been following me,” she says. “He was waiting for me outside when you got me out of jail. I think these are the men that blew up your house.”

 

“What man?” I turn to look as Haymitch catches up with us.

 

“That clown. He’s not a clown—he’s from the Capitol. One of Snow’s men,” she explains with panic in her tone.

 

“I’ll deal with him. You two move on,” Haymitch says.

 

I”m grateful I brought him for backup and quite uneasy about where this might be heading, but it’s for Katniss so nothing else matters.

 

“I will take you to my family and maybe we can slip away from them,” she says, pulling me away.

 

“Freeze, Bozo!” Haymitch yells at the first clown, holding him off while they slip out of the tent.

 

She takes my hand and lead us over to her family though the crowd, trying to evade more men from the Capitol. I hazard a glance back and see that Haymitch has the man cornered with his prop pistol.

 

A second clown approaches from the side as we’re moving through the crowd and tries to grab Katniss’ arm. He speaks roughly to her in Panemanian in a threatening tone.

 

“What did he say?” I ask.

 

“He says I must go with him,” she translates.

 

“Sorry pal, the lady is with me. What’s Panemanian for ‘get lost, dickface’?” I ask Katniss.

 

“Not dickface,” the clown yells and pushes me into a shoving match.

 

I punch him, and a circle of clowns forms around us, cheering us on in the fight.

 

_Odair knew he had a formidable opponent. But the ace detective’s mastery of karate, and judo, taekwondo, and a knack for streetfighting made him more than a match for his adversary._

 

We trade punches and kicks, each grabbing for something heavy to strike with and finding only gag tools and props that shatter into confetti on contact.

 

_Odair played him like a cat, toying with a doomed mouse. It was only a matter of time._

The clown hoists me over his shoulder and begins to spin.

 

_His opponent had landed a few lucky punches before Odair decided the time had come to stop playing around._

 

I went in for a chokehold and then continued to clobber him. I’m declared the de facto winner by the crowd surrounding us when he falls down.

 

Within minutes, immigration officers and state police, including Lieutenant Hawthorne, arrive on the scene and begin arresting the disguised Capitol diplomats involved with the crimes.

 

“Where are the others?” Gale asks.

 

“There’s one over there,” I say, pointing to the guy Haymitch has under control.

 

“Jesus, look at you,” Gale gapes.

 

“Hmm, realistic enough for you? How’d you know where I was?” I ask Gale.

 

“I didn’t,” Gale says. “Immigration has been working on this defection deal, and I recognized her name, so I rode out with them,” he explains.  

 

“Yes, what is happening with that? What will happen to us?” Katniss asks.

 

“I don’t really know. I think you have some more paperwork to finish down at the State,” Gale relays.

 

Well, I’ll take you there,” I offer and greet her family.

 

*****

_That night, Odair returned to his lavishly refurbished Manhattan penthouse, where his personal code that told him never to fall in love with a client or suspect came to be broken. This women had crept up on him. The doubts, the fears, at last. And yet there was one thing the detective had to know._

 

Katniss is shaking her hair out of a braid, and I love to watch the soft raven curls break free of their trappings. She lounges back on my bed, waiting for me.  

 

“Katniss, there’s something I need to know,” I say. “That man, the one that was murdered….with the knife?”

 

“Ah yes, Darius. The men that you fought with? They are the diplomats from the Capitol that wouldn’t let us defect to the U.S. and wanted us to stay in Panem. They caught my family as we were about to defect. Darius came over to argue with them, and they started to fight. My family managed to escape. But the man that you fought with,” she kisses the cut on my cheek from the fight. “He murdered Darius. He was only trying protect my family.”  

 

Her soft kisses travel to my lips, and she envelops me in a hug.

 

“I knew you couldn’t do anything like that. I knew it from the first moment I saw you.”

 

Her hand reaches under the pillows on my bed and withdraws a knife.

 

“AAAAH!” I yell at the gleaming blade.

 

She throws the knife across the room, and it lands in another beetle against the wall.

 

“Got it!” she cheers herself. “You’re so nervous. Why?” she asks playfully.

 

“Bugs do that to me,” I sigh.

 

_He held her in his arms and kissed her long and hard. He felt he understood this woman completely now. Not a part of her existed that he didn’t know. Except, of course, the parts she didn’t want him to know._

  
  


The End

  


Now that the suave and debonair Detective Finnick Odair has retired into the sunset, best-selling author **Peeta Mellark** is back in the spotlight with his latest _Arrow_ series, revolving around a young girl from Panem. All three novels _Arrows Never Forget_ , _Arrows I’ve Loved_ , and _Shakes Hands with an Arrow_ are currently in various stages of production for feature film adaptations. Casting is rumored to involve several award-winning actors. Peeta lives with with his wife and their two young children in rural Connecticut.

 


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